


Spin the Bottle

by OriginalCeenote



Series: Break Up to Make Up [1]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Flirting, Getting Together, Indecision, Kiss and Cry, M/M, Makeup Sex, Morning After Regret, Neither is Logan, Remy Isn't Known for His Good Judgment, Vomiting, drinking game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friendly game between friends... Riiiiiiiight. LoMy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin the Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me one night when I was brooding over one of my other stories. Hence, this one-shot was born. No Antarctica, no Sinister, no Ororo or Rogue. Trashy slash and plenty of it. Be warned.

“Uh-uh. No way.”

“C’mon, no do-overs. That’s cheating!”

“House rules, Bobby. Wherever it lands, ya gotta pucker up!”

“Geez…here. Have a breath mint, at least.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

“No.”

“Aw, man. Geez.” Fumbling ensues. The proffered TicTac is grudgingly passed across the circle of friends and taken just a reluctantly. Giggles around the room underscore the crunch of the mint between sharp teeth.

“Just tell me that you’ll respect me in the morning. And that you’ll never mention this after tonight.”

“Hank…MMMRMPH!”

Fur. Fangs. Hot breath, scented slightly (but not enough) with mint, and a vestige of Twinkies. Bobby cringed and swallowed back revulsion as Hank’s massive paws fisted themselves in his collar and yanked his forward. The kiss was brief and hard, but it lingered…

Humiliation knotted his gut and made heat bloom in his cheeks. He was euphoric. He was disgusted. Cat calls and howls of surprise and laughter grated on his nerves.

His only consolation in the midst of his torment was Who’s the next victim?

He recoiled, wiping his mouth several times on his sleeve, trying to wipe the taste from his tongue. “BLEAH!”

“I should be insulted,” Hank murmured, “but the feeling’s too mutual.”

“Ah didn’t think ya’d do it,” Anna Marie marveled, grinning wickedly.

“You called me a cheater!”

“Ah still figured ya’d chicken out.”

“WHAT?”

“Fine, then,” Jean decided smugly. There was too much mischief in her green eyes. It didn’t bode well. “We’ll change the rules.”

“Here we go,” Scott sighed, throwing up his hands. He had little to worry about. Jean’s telekinesis ensured that the bottle would point to her whenever he spun, but she accepted the random landing for each of her turns, each with amusing results.

They’d emptied an indecently large bottle of tequila (Hank ate the worm, causing every woman in the room to gag). Bobby’s suggestion of a game was only half-serious.

The last person he expected to warm to the idea was Ororo. 

“Everyone, gather into a circle,” she ordered imperiously. It wasn’t the first time she’d treated them like a class of kindergarteners.

“Woo-hoo!” Anna Marie crowed.

“Anna, you can’t even kiss anybody,” Kitty pointed out.

“Ah can kiss anyone on the top of the head. That’s the beauty of hair,” she sniffed, then stuck out her tongue.

“Just don’t kiss me,” Kitty retorted.

“Ah don’t know where yer mouth’s been!”

Kitty growled and lobbed a pillow at Anna Marie, who easily deflected it. She flung it back through empty air as Kitty phased. As Kitty stood and thumbed her nose, Bobby took advantage of her distraction and successfully bopped her in the head with the cushion.

They arranged themselves into a large, crooked circle, some lounging on the floor, and some sprawled on the furniture. Following the usual rules, they sat boy-girl-boy-girl. Some of them sat across from the object of their affection, while some chose to sit side by side. Scott and Jean chose the latter; hence, Jean’s little parlor trick with the bottle continued on through the night.

It started safely enough.

Warren took his turn first. It landed on Jubilee, who blushed to the roots of her hair, then pouted when she received a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Sorry, kiddo, yer still jailbait,” Anna Marie whispered.

“Am not!” Then “Barely.”

“Relax, short stuff, I’ve seen your driver’s license,” Jean said. Jubi took her turn next and pecked a smiling Scott on the cheek. Jean didn’t mind.

The next six spins yielded mixed and raucous results. Ororo suffered a Fred Astaire-style dip from Remy and a positively sloppy kiss that, surprisingly, she didn’t wipe off.

“Y’know ya liked it, Stormy.”

“For the last time, Remy, quit *hic* calling me Stormy.” She didn’t tell him to keep his lips to himself.

Remy was enjoying himself, taking a rare moment just to enjoy his friends’ company, some alcohol, and time in the warmth and comfort of the house instead of living on the grift or by the cards. His ruby red eyes were faintly glazed from the tequila, but his body was relaxed and still graceful where he lounged on the couch.

Over the din of laughter he heard the front door slam and heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Jean turned toward the doorway.

“Logan!” She cupped her hand around her mouth. “Come on in here! We’re having a blast!”

“Not for long,” Warren muttered.

“Be nice.” Betsy threw back the last of her tequila shot and bit deeply into a lemon wedge.

“I’m not kissing him, and neither are you.”

“Spoilsport.” 

After a long pause, they felt Logan enter before they met his eyes.

He smelled their wariness, mingled with the tequila fumes, and Logan smirked at the bottle laying on its side in the middle of the circle.

“I don’t even wanna know.”

“What do you think? Come and spin, big guy. Or are you chicken?”

“Buck, BOCK!” Kitty crooked her elbows and flapped her arms in a tell-tale gesture.

“Don’t get ahead of yerself, Half-Pint. And how much of that shit have ya had ta drink? Ya haven’t even been in college that long, and they’ve already turned ya into a lush?”

“Ha-ha,” Jubi muttered.

“And don’t ya make me turn ya over my knee, either, kid.”

“I’m not jailbait!” She folded her arms sullenly. Then hiccupped.

“C’mon. Sit down, Logan. Join us.”

“Ya’ve gotta be kidding. Uh-uh, Jeannie. No way.”

“Oh, come on. It’s fun. You’re such a party pooper.”

“So sue me. I’m gettin’ a brew.”

“There’s still some tequila at the bar,” Hank said.

“I’m in the mood for a beer,” he sneered, already fishing in the small fridge for a Molson. “And ya bought the cheap shit.”

“You don’t have to eat the worm,” Jubi offered.

“I don’t need ta explain to ya all the reasons why that’s true, punkin’. Ain’t it about yer bedtime?” Logan checked his watch, cocking his brow and looking stern at her, Anna Marie and Kitty.

“Mebbe it’s yours, homme. Awful cranky tonight, non?” Logan paused in taking a gulp of his beer and treated the voice’s owner to a stony look.

Punk. Logan’s dark eyes bore deeply into Remy’s gleaming ones over the rim of his drink. His firm lips pursed around the bottle and he swallow long, thirsty gulps of beer, working it noisily down his throat as he finished it.

“Sure we can’t tempt you to jump in?” Betsy teased. He smirked again and rolled his eyes, even as he looked her up and down.

“Nah.”

“Going once, going twice…” Ororo chanted. He looked at her in surprise, not expecting her to look glazed, bleary and slightly tousled. She was usually so uptight…it was odd to see her, well, letting her hair down. And her silver tresses were tumbling down her back, stray tendrils falling into her eyes. She turned to Remy and shot him a wink. He winked back.

A seed of irritation planted itself in Logan’s gut and unfurled the longer he listened to his friends’ heckling.

Enough was enough.

He thunked the empty bottle down onto the wet bar and exhaled gustily.

“Let’s get this over with, fer fuck’s sake.”

They were shocked into silence.

Nothing else from the peanut gallery?

The gruff loner plunked himself down on the ottoman, hovering over Ororo’s shoulder where she was perched on the floor, hugging her knee. She bumped his knee and grinned at him.

“Nice of you to join us,” she murmured.

“Got healin’ factor, darlin’. When the rest of ya are hung over and huggin’ the porcelain tomorrow morning, I’m gonna be fresh as a daisy and remindin’ all of ya how stupid ya acted tonight.” He shoved her tequila shot glass into her hand. “Drink up.” She blew a piece of her hair out of her eyes and shook her head.

“Don’t be shy,” Jean nagged. “Take a spin!” Scott elbowed her to be silent.

They parted for him to enter the circle. Logan grasped the bottle and gave it a sharp, deft flick. It spun, and spun, and spun some more, so fast that the label blurred…

It scraped to a stop against the hardwood floorboards. Its neck pointed toward the couch.

All eyes were pinned on Remy.

Remy’s gut dipped, along with his smile, just for a moment, before he turned up the wattage and flashed his brilliant white teeth.

“Not on yer life, Gumbo.” Logan’s back was up and his scowl was dark.

He looked cute when he was mad…

“I don’t bite, mec.” Then he added, “Much.”

“Neither do I, since I got these.” SNIKT. He raised a single claw in warning. Remy’s smile only widened.

“Aw, come on, Bobby kissed Hank,” Jubi complained. Logan snorted in disgust.

“Don’t remind me,” Bobby tsked. “And keep it to yourself!”

“She’s got a point,” Ororo mused. “You play the game, you follow the rules, my friend.”

“Darlin’, when have ya ever known me ta follow the rules?”

“You’ve never backed away from a bet, either, or a game.”

“What bet?”

“I bet you a case of Molson that you won’t kiss him,” Bobby blurted. Everyone had been grinning and enjoying the show of Logan looking pissed off and talking his way out of his turn.

They froze. All eyes swung on Bobby.

“What?”

“Are you out of your freaking mind?” Kitty squeaked.

“C’mon. Who doesn’t wanna see him do it?”

“I don’t.” Warren raised his hand. He made a face.

He wasn’t fond of either man, for myriad reasons, and a kiss between the two of them, no matter how chaste or unwilling, was likely to make him throw up everything he’d drank over the last two hours.

“Ya got a problem, Blondie?”

“You didn’t even want to play. Save the beer, Bobby. The runt hasn’t got the balls and never follows the rules.”

“I ain’t the one who’s gonna be missin’ a pair of balls…”

“This isn’t any fun anymore,” Kitty complained.

“Way to ruin the game, Wings,” Anna Marie chimed in.

“Perhaps it’s time to play something else,” Ororo sighed. “I’ll go get the Jenga from the upstairs.”

“Uh-uh,” Jean argued. “Sit! We’re fine where we are. Logan, new rule: If anyone else votes to take Remy’s place, then you kiss them, and it’s their turn.”

“I dunno if I’m offended,” Remy said, “or just pissed off because I’m gonna be missin’ a turn if Short Stuff changes his mind.”

“You haven’t exactly been starved for affection tonight, Remy.” Jean guessed that Remy’s power affected probability, as well as the strength of his charm on people. So far he’d kissed every woman in the room. Twice. She smacked her lips when no one was looking, please at the memory.

“Kiss him, Logan!”

“C’mon, lay one on him!”

“Smoochy-smoochy!”

“I’ll go get my Carmex, it makes your lips nice and soft!”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with my lips, damn it!’

“They look a little dry…”

“Bobby has TicTacs!”

“I’m not trading places with Remy.”

“No one asked ya too, Blue! Butt out!”

“I haven’t even had a turn yet, tovarisch. Make up your mind.”

“I ain’t layin’ one on you, either, Petey, so just wipe that thought from yer mind.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” Kitty rolled her eyes and whapped him upside the head.

“I could trade places with Remy,” Ororo soothed. Jean snorted. Ororo had ulterior motives. They’d kissed before. Jean still caught snatches of those moments in Ororo’s daydreams whenever her friend projected. They were merely friends, but Ororo nursed an addiction to Logan’s mouth.

“Shit.” Logan was good and worked up at this point, and the dark, solitary comfort of his room called to him. He craved a cigar and Law and Order reruns. More beer would’ve been great, even better with Popsicle paying the tab…but the cost was too high.

There he was.

The Cajun.

Looking all smug and pretty. Yeah, he mused. Pretty.

All slick and disheveled.

Sprawled like a man who just fell out of bed.

Unshaven.

Riding a buzz from tequila and completely unashamed. Shuffling that infernal deck of cards with long, dexterous fingers that never did a lick of hard work, but picked more pockets than he could count.

Sin was written all over that face. Sweet, dark, decadent sin.

He had the nerve to yawn…

“Gettin’ late, mec.”

“I’m getting bored,” Jubi whined.

“Me, too,” Anna admitted around a yawn of her own. Briefly, futilely, she wished she were in Logan’s place, without her own flaw. A tequila-flavored kiss from the Cajun was exactly what she had on the menu, but…it wasn’t in the cards.

Logan’s eyes scanned the room. Their faces – except Warren’s – were expectant and anxious. He mulled it over.

A kiss from Ororo, or a kiss from the Cajun.

Saving face, or drinking a case of Molson that he didn’t have to buy himself.

The decision was easier than he thought.

Before anyone could react, he was up in a flash and striding over to the couch. Remy’s head snapped up when Logan stopped before him. His grasp was rough as he hauled him up by the arm, jerked him against him, closed his beefy hand around his nape and crushed his startled mouth.

“Yeek,” Kitty cringed.

“Eeew,” Bobby added, wincing.

“That’s it. I’m going to be sick…” Warren stalked out of the room, feathers rustling behind him. Jean, Ororo and every other woman in the room just stared openmouthed. Scott did a double take while he was pouring himself another shot at the bar.

The clear liquid was missing the shot glass and splashing all over the counter.

Logan’s heart pounded and he was wrapped in a hot flush. 

The Cajun’s scent was killing him. He could feel him projecting triumph and amusement at his expense. His buzz was obvious.

But the lust!

Holeeee shit…

The Cajun wasn’t supposed to be enjoying it. He smothered a low groan of surprise, then arousal as Logan sucked his lower lip between his teeth. Their breath mingled, beer with tequila as Logan swallowed what he’d been about to say.

Logan’s lips weren’t dry; Kitty’s suggestion about the lip balm had been unwarranted, thanks to Logan’s healing factor.

They were smooth and firm. Succulent. A hint of stubble grazed him, burning him and adding a sensual texture to his kiss.

Then it hit him.

How did he have so much time to analyze the kiss?

Because it hadn’t stopped, yet. That was how.

Logan broke the kiss before Remy could ponder it any further.

His eyes were dilated and wild, and his nostrils flared when he realized how close they were standing, chests still touching ever so slightly. Logan shoved him back; Remy lost his balance and fell back on the couch.

Logan whirled on Bobby. “Pay up, Popsicle.”

“Okay,” he said meekly.

With that, Logan stomped out of the den.

Space and a minute to catch his breath. That was all Logan needed.

He flung open his bedroom door and shucked his leather jacket, followed by his flannel shirt, tossing them both onto a battered armchair.

He reached for his cigars, then paused. His clothes felt stifling and confining on his body. A shower took priority over his smokes.

The real question, though, was hot or cold?

Moments later, he was flinching and wriggling beneath the icy cold water, practically scrubbing his skin off with a brittle stump of Ivory soap. His blunt fingernails scraped over his scalp, neck and chest as if he could wash away what happened in the den.

He could still hear the Cajun’s voice in his ear, aroused and languorous. He’d enjoyed that kiss. It stood out starkly in the middle of the den, amidst the forced silence as every single one of his teammates – he was reluctant to call them his friends, at this point – clammed up and looked on in stupefaction. 

Had Remy touched him?

His mind reeled.

Oh, yeah. He’d touched him.

It was a fleeting contact. Those thief’s fingers curled in the open flaps of Logan’s leather jacket, reflexively or willingly, Logan couldn’t guess, grazing his abdomen.

What the fuck had he done?

 

*

 

“I don’t know whether to be grossed out, or jealous.”

“Take your pick, Jubi,” Anna muttered as she brushed her hair.

“Of who?”

“Again, take your pick.”

“That was some kiss.” Kitty was diligently applying cold cream to her face and rubbing off her scant makeup. “I didn’t think he’d do it. Not for a minute.”

“When ain’t he surprised us, shoog?”

“But he’s so…straight. And so hands off.”

“He’s kissed Ororo. And Jean.”

“Then he needs to disinfect his mouth. Everyone’s kissed those two,” Jubi grumbled.

The game had broken up almost immediately after Logan left; Ororo decided to forgo the Jenga idea and made her own way up to bed. The rest of her friends staggered up after her once the glasses were piled in the sink and the coffee table rings had been wiped up.

Several pairs of eyes remained open in the dark, within every room of the house as they pondered what they saw.

 

Betsy and Warren:

“If you love me, you’ll grab a poker and gauge out my eyes. I never want to use them again after what I saw.”

“Settle down, Duckie.”

 

Ororo:

“I would have been perfectly happy to have traded places with him. Blasted man…what are you up to now, Logan?”

 

Bobby and Hank:

“This sucks. I owe him a case now.”

“Shouldn’t have made a bet if you couldn’t keep it.”

“That’s helpful advice, Hank. And by the way, keep your mouth to yourself.”

“What I can’t wrap my head around is how unphased Remy acted, like that kind of thing just happens all the time.” Then he sobered. “Maybe…it does.”

Hank considered Remy’s natural charm; whether it was actually a mutant gift or just “something he could do,” Hank was still trying to discern. He had quick hands and a smooth tongue; anything was possible with the Cajun.

“Still…Logan, fer cripes’ sake. I mean, kissing you…geez. But kissing THAT guy.”

“Stranger things have happened.” Bobby made a face in the dark.

“No. They haven’t.”

 

*

Jean and Scott:

“I can’t believe he did it.”

“Come to bed.” Scott spit out a foamy mouthful of toothpaste and chucked his brush into the cup.

“I mean, I really don’t believe it.”

“What’s the big deal.”

“Logan. Kissing Remy. Wow.”

“I saw. Big whoop.”

“But…kissing Remy. Wow.”

“Jean, I get it.”

“Kissing REMY!”

“Jean, will you just come to bed, for crying out loud!!!”

Scott, for one, was thrown for a loop by what he witnessed, but he had the satisfaction of feeling Jean’s errant thoughts of kissing Logan on her next turn thwarted. On the one hand, he was as shocked as everyone else. On the other hand, he squelched the urge to point his finger and yell, “In your FACE!”

 

*

 

The night, Remy decided, was still young.

Low strains of Stevie Ray Vaughan drifted through the den as Remy filled his glass with more of the tequila, despite its dubious quality. 

Damn.

Would he have guessed the Wolverine would take Drake’s bet that seriously?

Nope. Not in a million years.

A kiss was just a kiss, no matter who gave it. Remy had his share, heaven knew. Desperate kisses. Greedy, hungry kisses that socked him in the gut.

Logan had been impulsive and rough, his mouth was hard and hot, and Remy couldn’t remember feeling so…floored. So off-balance. In the grand scheme of things, Logan’s message was clear: I ain’t chicken. I’m gonna kiss ya ta make everybody shut the fuck up, including you.

And yet…

Logan felt him respond. Remy knew this. And Remy went along for the ride.

That mouth. That skilled mouth left him raw, commanding his, even if he didn’t acknowledge it. Urging him – no, ordering him – to open for him.

To surrender.

At the first press of Logan’s mouth, Remy’s tongue tentatively stroked the seam of Logan’s lips, barely tickling his upper one. He immediately felt Logan’s body stiffen.

Suddenly, his domination of the moment between them was threatened. Remy was making a move of his own, and Logan would have none of it.

The impulsiveness of their encounter was over. Remy bit his tongue on his way down when Logan shoved him back on the sofa.

All he felt was bewildered.

Well, maybe slightly bereft.

Never mind. He had an erection that was slowly giving him a headache.

The tequila didn’t even burn anymore as he slammed the shot. His teeth were dangerously numb.

Remy retrieved the remote for the stereo and changed the CD in the carriage to his second favorite.

Hurt. Johnny Cash sang it best, and he fell in love with it the moment he heard it.

Remy relaxed on one of the bar stools and brooded, glad for the solitude. But he still ached…

 

*

 

Another beer called to him, despite Logan’s best effort to stay in his room. He stubbed out the well-chewed remains of his cigar and opened a window to clear the smell by the time he got back.

His bare feet creaked over the floorboards, but his ears told him that everyone slumbered heavily behind closed doors…except for Warren and Betsy, which quickened his footsteps. Some things weren’t meant for human ears, particularly not his ears. Damned enhanced senses…

The house was slightly cool; he wagered Jeannie turned on the air conditioning, with everyone getting all sweaty and liquored up. Logan enjoyed its faint chill against his bare back. His battered flannel pajama bottoms were all that he wore; those would be tossed aside once he went back upstairs. All he wanted was a cold brew.

Sure, that was all he wanted…riiiiight.

He was opening the fridge in the kitchen when he heard the music.

Low. Moody. Dark as syrup.

Johnny Cash. His favorite.

The song, whichever one it was, somehow fit. He leaned the bottle against the counter and slapped off the cap, taking a long swallow and wiping his mouth. 

He could head upstairs. He had what he wanted.

Didn’t he?

Before he made up his mind, his feet took matters into their own hands and led him to the den.

From the doorway he spied the Cajun.

His usual grace was gone, or at least…different. Logan’s eyes traveled over his body, slightly slumped at the bar. He wore dark colors, true to his roots as a thief, and not far removed from his uniform. Instead of the concealing trenchcoat, Remy’s black silk shirt was cut loosely, almost like a poet shirt, minus the billowy pleats and ruffles (thank God). There was nothing to distract the eye from the planes and proportions of his lean body, particularly the coffee brown leather pants, which unfortunately, left nothing to Logan’s imagination.

Damn it.

He watched Remy run his fingers through his hair, rumpling the waves even more. It was long enough to cover his collar and rakishly cut, almost like a Calvin Klein model, except he didn’t rely on buckets of hair gel like Popsicle or Jubes.

He leaned his head back and tossed back another shot with abandon, making a sound of satisfaction. Logan was fascinated by the smooth cords of tendon working in his throat and he caught his profile in repose as he stared down into the glass.

What was wrong with him?

How many times had he been around Remy and never given it a second thought? How many lines of bullshit had he heard him spin with every broad in the house, or all of the ones hot for his ass outside of it? The kid was a charmer. A bullshit artist.

All Logan had ever cared about was whether or not they could trust him. Whether or not he had his back in the field. The kid rubbed him wrong from the moment Ororo made introductions. In Logan’s line of work, both as a soldier and an assassin, he learned to doubt a man’s intentions if they smiled too brightly or talked a big game. Remy was a smooth talker. His answers about where and when he met ‘Ro were too brief and couched too many hidden details.

So why this? Why now?

Why did Logan suddenly feel…uneasy?

Some loss of control was at work within him. He couldn’t name it. He couldn’t understand it. His body felt tense and strained. All he had to do – the solution was flashing in neon lights in his head – was walk away. Go back upstairs. Drink his beer and toss the blankets over his head.

He spoke, breaking his thrall. He nearly regretted it.

“What’re ya doin’ now, Cajun?”

“Gettin’ anotha’ bottle ready for de next game. Whaddya t’ink, mec?” Remy didn’t turn around all the way, merely peering over his shoulder at the feral loner as he abandoned his shot glass. He turned his back on him again. No other men dared turn their back on the Wolverine, but Remy was enjoying a pleasant buzz, and oddly, the low, raspy thrum of Logan’s voice.

Had he come to share Remy’s music with him? He doubted it, but indulged in that wish, anyway.

“Ya’ve had enough. Why’re ya gonna waste time down here, gettin’ sloppy on that cheap crap?”

“It’s m’own time t’waste, last time I checked.”

“Suit yerself.” Logan took up the empty couch, content to hog it while he drank his beer. He lounged just as indolently as Remy had, but he emitted a leonine yawn; Remy heard the joint in his jaw crack and noted how relaxed he looked, for a change. 

He wore old pajama bottoms that should never see the light of day, made of battered blue cotton with thin white stripes. There was a small hole worn in one knee, declaring them his favorites. He was shirtless. Unlike Remy, Logan was never a clothes horse, despite the efforts of every woman in the mansion to civilize him. 

They were wasting their time. Logan was raw and rough, and he’d have it no other way. His five o’clock shadow grew back within minutes of shaving his jaw smooth. His hair was unruly, always one step away from bed-head. It always grew back into those thick, coarse peaks, no matter how short he cut it, and it felt as dense as the ruff of a wolf.

It fit him.

He decided to forgo a shirt. Remy looked his fill.

Damn.

He knew why the ladies swooned over him once they were done fussing and harping how crude he was. He didn’t apologize for who he was, didn’t need anyone’s opinion, and didn’t feel he had to please anyone. If that didn’t guarantee phone numbers shoved into his pockets, then Remy was whistling Dixie. Logan’s brand of aloofness wasn’t Remy’s tool of choice.

No, once you got past the appallingly scruffy clothes and stern looks, Logan was a work of art.

Shirtless, he was ruddy and tanned. His skin held no scars, thanks to his healing factor, and it was stretched tautly over hills and ripples of muscle. A fine layer of black hair crept over his chest and tapered down over his flat stomach. A profusion of it sprinkled his arms, pronouncing him a male of the species.

He was scowling at him with arched, shaggy brows. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?”

“Ya stole the couch.”

“Don’t have yer name on it.”

“My ass prints work just as well.” Logan’s gut clenched at the word “ass.” Remy stood from the bar, giving him an unimpeded view of his, garbed in that snug brown leather.

“Finders keepers.”

“G’wan back upstairs, den. Look like ya fell outta bed, mec.”

“Look who’s talkin’. Ya stink ta high heaven, Rem.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Logan knew something about insomnia.

“So now yer gonna lay awake drunk in the dark, instead of just awake.” 

“What’s y’own excuse?”

“Healin’ factor.”

“Non. Why ya awake?”

“Guess yer music kept me up.”

“Wasn’t playin’ it dat loud.”

“My hearin’ better than most.”

“Goody fuh you.” Remy turned back toward the bar and reached for the bottle again.

“Put it down.”

“Neh.” He was already unscrewing the cap.

“I said, put it down.”

“Non. Remy don’ feel like it.”

“Ya missed the part where I ain’t kidding.”

“Ya missed de part where Remy said no.” The kid lapsed into his habit of using third person speech, something he did when he wanted to distance himself from his audience. When he closed himself up. To some it was off-putting, even though many women he came into contact with it loved it.

“Ya’ve had enough.” He was going to be in horrible shape the next morning. Logan almost didn’t pity him. Almost. He put aside his beer, even though the bottle still had a couple of swallows left. He stalked up to the bar. “Give it here.”

“Pfft.” Logan held out his beefy hand imperiously. Remy stared at his open palm and snorted.

“Put y’hand down!”

“Did I stutter?”

“Non. Remy heard ya jus’ fine.”

Logan sighed deeply, letting his broad chest inflate, reminding Remy of a wolf flaring his ruff before baring its teeth.

In all his foolish, thrill-seeking life, he’d never feared wolves…

Logan snatched the bottle away, but not before Remy’s hand shot back out and gripped its neck.

“Leggo.”

“You leggo.”

“All I wanna see is yer ass marchin’ up those steps ta bed.”

“Ain’t nothin’ waitin’ fuh me when I get dere. And what’s dis ‘bout wantin’ t’see my ass?” Logan flushed.

Remy smirked. His red on black eyes were filled with laughter, entirely at the Wolverine’s expense.

“I’m about ta stick my foot so far up it if ya don’t leggo.” Remy shook off his hand, staggered back, and raised the bottle to his lips. He was glugging down more of the clear poison when Logan snatched it back, not caring how it spilled down Remy’s chin and spotted his fine shirt.

Then Logan felt a frisson of…something. It distracted him.

Remy’s eyes. They were so deeply focused on Logan’s face, and so rapt, that he couldn’t look away.

He heard Remy’s deep, slow breathing and smelled the liquor on his breath. He watched his pupils dilate and flicker over him as if sizing him up. Logan’s fingers loosened around the neck of the bottle.

“Sure know how ta ruin a man’s fun, dontcha?” Logan’s gaze was riveted on his mouth. Remy’s lips were broad and thin; the upper one was deeply notched. It was a wicked mouth made to grin and kiss senseless.

Remy’s voice was sleepy and hoarse, but it caressed him. Coaxed him.

“This is yer excuse fer fun?” The words felt hollow coming out of Logan’s mouth.

“Non. Ya owe Remy anotha’ game, mec. Ya didn’ let me take my turn.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Ain’t like playin’ Simon Says, mec. Can’t lose at spin de bottle.” They continued their tug of war with the bottle, but Logan’s effort was half-assed at best. Remy’s fingers fumbled and grazed Logan’s knuckles, trying to peel the bottle from his grasp.

His hands were hot. The awkwardness of it was making Logan flush more deeply and getting him riled up.

“I didn’t lose. I played yer stupid game and followed yer ‘rules’ after all you babies nagged me to.”

“Remy didn’ nag, homme. Remy just asked as nicely as ya please.” Logan tingled with irritation.

Fuck. He was right.

Remy gave another sharp tug. Logan tugged back, harder. Remy braced himself and widened his stance, one leg in front of the other and yanked, taunting Logan with his smile. Logan was sober as a judge, eyes flat, hard chips. He nearly pulled Remy’s arm from the socket.

He wasn’t expecting the kid to let his momentum carry him, completely releasing his balance and landing up against Logan’s hard body.

They fumbled. Logan tried to scrape away Remy’s hands but ended up getting his own tangled in Remy’s shirt. Logan wrestled the bottle away from him, finally, and aimed it at a nearby wastebasket. It landed with a thunk inside.

“Awwww, now what’d ya go an’ do dat fo’?” He staggered against him, pressed up against his solid chest. The slippery, smooth silk was brushing up against Logan’s flesh; he could feel Remy’s own skin beneath it, radiating heat.

Logan’s nipples pebbled.

“Dat ain’t how ya play de game, mec. Remy gon’ get anotha’ bottle…”

“The hell ya are!”

“Fine, den. We can play wi’ ‘dout it.”

“What are y-MMMRRPH!” The Cajun’s eyes had been teasing, providing even more of a distraction and throwing him off-guard. Remy nimbly wove his feet around Logan’s ankles, tripped him and made him fall back onto the bar stool, his broad thighs splayed. He gained leverage, grasped Logan’s hips and ground himself against the hard bulge of his crotch, sending his enhanced sense of touch into overdrive.

He pounced. Remy attacked Logan’s open mouth mid-protest. The kiss was hot, wet and hard, nothing tentative about it.

He felt Logan’s body reacting to him, from the stiffness between his legs to Logan’s breath steaming from his nostrils. The feral’s thick fingers dug into Remy’s arms, initially with the intent to shove him away.

The music played on, singing in Remy’s blood. He knew Logan would likely kick his ass for taking liberties, but it was worth it. He took what he could, while he could get it.

His tongue probed Logan’s mouth, sweeping inside to thoroughly taste him, exploring the points of his canines. His low hum of approval was punctuated by the movement of his hips.

The kid was pumping and working his hips against him. To the rhythm of Johnny Cash?

It was heady, the feel of Remy’s body flush with his, invading his space and intoxicating him with the scent of his hair and skin. His mouth and hands betrayed him, pulling at him and jerking him closer, nipping and lapping up more of his flavors to quench his thirst…

Remy’s charm…

“Mmmph…sonofaBITCH!” Logan shoved himself back, nearly pitching himself from the stool. Without his support, Remy fell forward and hit himself on the stool’s edge on his way down. He slumped to his knees, probing his lip.

“Shit,” he hissed.

“What the fuck did ya do t’me, Rem!”

“Nuthin’, mec.”

“The hell ya didn’t!”

“Took my turn. Cheated me out of it tonight. Only fair.”

“It’s only fair if I kick yer ass fer gettin’ too familiar.”

“Ain’t doin’ anyt’in’ that didn’ ‘appen earlier tonight, Logan. ‘Cept you started it, dat time.”

“This is gonna finish it. That’s fuckin’ enough.”

“Somehow I don’ t’ink so, chere.” The use of Remy’s favorite pet name piqued Logan and narrowed his eyes. “Don’ t’ink ya’ve had enough yet, cuz ya liked it.”

His demon’s eyes flicked down below Logan’s waist. Logan himself refused to look down at the swelling bulge that seemed to drain all the blood from his head. He was hot, nearly sore, and he wanted to kill Remy in the worst way.

He was falling down drunk. 

He was…

Logan’s jaw worked and his fists clenched, but his claws remained sheathed. Remy watched him from his vantage point on the floor.

“T’ink ya have de right idea, mec. ‘S too hot in here.” His long fingers crept up and unfastened the small black disc at his throat. He was making short, deliberate work of the buttons, exposing his golden flesh inches at a time.

“Fuck…quit it. Put yer clothes back on, Gumbo. Yer drunk.”

“M’hot. Gonna take ‘em off anyway, when I head upstairs.” The shirt tails were already untucked. One last button and his shirt fell open, uncovering the planes of his chest.

The kid had a perfect, rippling six-pack. Years of training himself in the martial arts and fighting in the streets honed him and whittled away any ounce of fat on his body. His body wasn’t hairless, merely neat. Sparse, chestnut hair lay smoothly over the center of his chest, tapering into a thin trail that led below his waistline.

His navel was an inny. Flat nipples hardened with the draft in the room.

Without the shroud of black silk hanging down over his body, Logan had an unimpeded view of Remy’s crotch outlined in the snug leather.

“Stop it.”

“Make me stop it. Said m’hot.” He shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and let it flutter to the hard wood. Logan watched transfixed as he undid the top button of his pants. His face darkened and twisted.

“Now what the fuck are ya doin’?”

“What’s it look like?”

What did it look like, indeed…

Logan’s dick was tenting his pajama bottoms and screaming for contact. Hands. Mouth. Anything. The kid was driving him nuts.

Beneath the smell of the tequila, he smelled lust, heady and addictive. Pheromones wrapped around him and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe. He could nearly taste the sheen of sweat on Remy’s skin, just looking at him.

“I’m warnin’ ya, Remy. Don’t make a fool of yerself. Yer gonna kick yerself in the morning. Or I’m gonna kick yer ass now, if ya don’t stop.”

“Remy heard ya jus’ fine. And Remy don’ give a shit. M’ uncomfo’table, an’ I’m gettin’ outta dese.”

ZIIIIPPPP… The staccato rip of teeth separating made Logan jerk.

Dark, crisp hair caught the sheen of lamplight before Remy’s hand eased inside the stiff flap of his pants, rearranging himself.

“Damn, that feels good. Hoo.”

Why wasn’t Logan leaving?

The sane part of him shouted that question in his ears. 

The rest of him stood rooted to the floor, urging Remy to finish his chore. He licked his lips.

Do it. He hadn’t said it aloud.

Remy heeded him anyway.

He rose ungracefully, unfolding himself and stretching in a yawn. Remy scratched his smooth belly briefly before reaching back into his gaping zipper flap and kneading the lump in relief. His flesh was heated beneath his touch and throbbed for more, for a firmer, surer grip.

Logan’s arousal swallowed him, burning in his veins.

“Ain’ no one else around, homme. Can take all de free turns we want, non? Unless ya wanna change de rules?”

Remy’s hand fisted around himself, slowly, deliberately stroking. Logan felt the pull of the motion between his own legs and coveted it.

He wanted to feel smooth flesh pulsing in his palm. Remy’s. Just once.

He’d try anything once.

Remy was willing, that much was obvious by the long, thick column of flesh jutting up from its nest. Remy fidgeted, working his hips further above the waistband until his ball sac sagged over the edge of his zipper. It was growing leathery and tight, drawing itself up with his ministrations. Remy’s thumb flicked over the plump head, swiping away a clear, thick droplet.

Screw the rules.

“Ya wanna play?” Remy paused, then continued to jack himself at a slightly faster pace, completely unashamed. “Then we play.”

His last thought before he closed the gap between them was that those damned pants had to go. Logan’s hands shot out and clamped Remy’s hips, pinning him and groping his ass. It felt firm and round in his palm, and he squeezed it hard. He scraped down the pants by the waistband, baring it to the cool air of the den and giving the young man goosebumps.

His dark eyes raked over Remy, holding dark intent. Remy shivered.

This wasn’t going to be gentle. Or pretty.

He was nonplussed. Remy grinned and again let the momentum carry him to Logan, grinding against him to enjoy the friction between them. He groaned in pleasure at the feel of his cock sliding against the soft flannel of Logan’s pajama bottoms, buffeting the hardness underneath. Logan made him burn.

Remy’s breathing was harsh, panting and short as Logan leaned in close, zeroing in on his neck.

“New rules. Ya make me come, and then ya get a turn, Remy.” He muttered the words into the side of his throat and grazed his skin with his teeth. Remy bucked against him as Logan’s hands pressed his hips closer, rubbing more firmly.

He bit Remy’s ear; pleasure overlapped the pain while Logan kneaded his ass. His touch was possessive and hungry, and Remy wondered silently if the feral had done this before. Remy’s hand wound around his upper arm, attempting to guide his hand. He wanted himself enclosed in that brawny fist. Another bite at the crest of his ear made him groan with need. Logan’s tongue lapped his bruised skin, almost in apology. Not quite.

Logan pulled back. He wasn’t in the mood to kiss, even as he gave Remy’s mouth a furtive look.

He gave his pants a savage yank, lowering himself and the offending leather before Remy could blink. He nearly tripped when he jerked them below his knees, forcing him to step out of them.

Logan looked his fill of Remy from his lower vantage point, watching his stiff cock bob slightly between those long, muscular legs. He skimmed his palm over his flesh, ruffling the fine, crisp hairs and scraped him lightly with his blunt fingernails.

An end to his ache was inches away in the form of Logan’s mouth, if he would just…

Logan feathered his thumb over Remy’s balls, so briefly that Remy groaned in protest. He ran his thick fingertip down the column of his cock, a light touch at odds with how he’d been with him so far.

“Ya want it?’

“Oui. C’mon, homme, ya killin’ me!”

“Ya accused me of bein’ a chicken.”

“Nuh-uh! Ya gotta be confusin’ me wit’ everybody else playin’ the game!” Logan wrapped his hand around Remy’s thigh, savoring its firmness as he gave him a test-taste.

Remy was slightly salty on his tongue but hot and smooth. His knees almost buckled.

But it wasn’t his turn yet. Logan pulled himself up, practically climbing Remy’s body as he stood. He steered him to the couch.

“Wait, mec!”

“Uh-uh.” It wasn’t an option. Not when the Cajun was driving him crazy. “Siddown.”

“Wait up, man, whaddya wan’ me ta…aw, man.” Logan’s dick sprung back and bobbed with his hard shove of his pajama bottoms, the elastic waist getting caught on his swollen flesh before the pants fell to the floor.

He was erect. He was impressive.

Remy leaned up from the couch cushions where he was sprawled and sat up, finally giving into the urge to touch him. His hands followed the same path Logan’s had, skimming along his legs as he, too, took a long, slow taste.

It wasn’t enough. Logan growled in warning and curled his fingers in Remy’s soft hair. Remy moaned a low “MMMPH!” as Logan fed him his dick in one garbled mouthful.

Remy fought to accommodate him and establish a rhythm. His memories took him back to random encounters in equally random bars. Sometimes he woke up with a woman in his bed. Sometimes, to a man. Both had their benefits.

The kid’s mouth. Hot. Wet. Wrapped around him like velvet. Logan watched his face in disbelief, then awe as Remy warmed to his task. He was groaning around him and clutching him, eyes closed, something which Logan regretted, only for a moment.

There was something about Remy’s eyes when they looked at him not to tease…but to tempt. He put away that thought and focused anew on the suction of his lips and flick of his tongue.

Pull. Lap. Suck. Pull. Lap. Suck. They moved in sync. Logan’s fingers dug into Remy’s scalp and remained tangled in that soft, thick hair. He didn’t protest the slow roam of Remy’s hands over his body where he stood.

Remy expected Logan to feel hard. His muscles convulsed slightly when Remy’s touch tickled too much or struck just the right spot. He stroked one sensitive nipple and felt it harden. He rolled it slightly between his fingers and enjoyed the Wolverine’s growl of warning. Remy’s own arousal grew the more he pleasured Logan, excitement pooling between his legs. He felt the dampness of precum gathering in the tiny indentation where Logan tasted him.

The kid wasn’t missing any part of him that screamed to be satisfied, despite being drunk off his ass.

“Geez…that’s…good shit,” he hissed. “Damn it, Rem! Damn, you can suck!” Remy cupped his balls, feeling their heft and firmness. He pulled back and released Logan’s death-grip on his head, groped his dick and lifted it aside as he drew one ball into his mouth. 

It felt so good. It felt wrong. It felt right. It felt like sin.

Remy jerked and stroked his dick while mouthing each ball, painting them in his heat. “C’mon,” he urged him. “Ya know what I want!” Remy peered up at him, never taking away his luscious mouth. “Rem! Goddamnit, move it back where ya had it!” Yet Logan was enjoying the anticipation just as much, not knowing where Remy would put his mouth next.

Remy struggled with him, wanting to heed him, but dizzy from arousal and the alcohol he’d consumed. He lingered at his balls, flattening his tongue against each globe, not minding the crisp hair.

Logan was impatient. He needed fulfillment. He wanted to feel his dick pulsing in the Cajun’s mouth again, pushing at the back of his throat. Oh, God, he needed it.

“C’mon,” he pleaded raggedly. He couldn’t stand it. Logan took his cock in his own hand and aimed it back inside Remy’s mouth, cramming it inside.

He pushed it, and the kid, too far.

He heard an ominous gagging noise and felt the kid’s throat convulse around him. He still needed to thrust. 

Remy had other ideas. As did his stomach.

“Ooommpphhh…” His chest contracted with the need to breathe through his mouth, but obviously, he couldn’t. It didn’t bode well.

“Rem?”

“Urrmph…” Nope. That didn’t sound good either.

“Kid, are ya all-“

“MMPH! Leggo! Lemme go!” His abrupt shove and Logan’s withdrawal from his mouth sent Logan sprawling. He fell backwards over the coffee table and practically landed on his head. He heard a rush of footsteps toward the sink.

Sometimes, Logan hated his enhanced senses. He heard the kid puking his guts out loud and clear, followed by a stench too unholy to be described. Logan’s head throbbed, and it wasn’t due to a hangover.

“Geez,” he muttered. Remy’s groan from behind the wet bar sounded like he agreed with him.

*

 

Remy woke up naked. Nothing new.

His head throbbed fit to bust, and his mouth tasted like hell.

Someone thoughtfully left his shades drawn and his door closed. He heard the muted thumps of footsteps in the hall, but at least they were slightly muffled. Just about any noise felt like a thousand sledgehammers right about now.

He scrubbed his face with his palm and stared at his surroundings. Same old room.

His clothes from the night before were neatly folded on top of his laundry hamper. He was sweating tequila from his pores. Cheap tequila. Remy groaned in disgust. Never again. Oh, never again…

Wait.

When the hell did he walk himself upstairs to bed?

He rolled gradually to sit up, wincing at the pain that even caused him. He stretched langorously and listened to his joints pop. The temperature of his room was moderate, but he was still burning up.

Remy padded into the shower and turned the water to a lukewarm setting, then eventually to cold, and he soaped away as much of the morning-after funk as he could with his Old Spice soap. His groan echoed off the shower walls as he washed his hair, scraping his fingernails over his scalp to clear his head.

Man, was he messed up.

He rewound the previous night’s events, starting at the beginning.

The trip out to the liquor store with Summers. Warren climbing back out of the Jeep when he saw that Remy was accompanying them, saying he had things to do. Pfft… Remy grunted. No love lost there, but it still left him with a pang.

Listening to the women in the house squeal and shriek over the variety of drinks as they pawed through the paper bags. Gathering in the den. Arguing over which movie to watch before all their chatter drowned out the set.

That empty bottle. Music. More laughter.

A kiss between Drake and Blue that made him wish he had his digicam. Priceless.

Moodiness. Feeling slightly…off.

Heavy footsteps.

Molson beer.

And then…

And then…

Bruising lips. Sharp canines grazing his skin. Groans of need. Distinctively masculine flavors tinged with beer and cigar smoke.

Remy dropped the soap bar with a thunk.

“Shit.”

 

*

Jean was downstairs, making the rounds with the ibuprofen.

“Why didn’t you tell me not to mix?”

“I did, Katya.”

“Then why didn’t you STOP me?”

“You promised me that you’d phase out my left kidney if I didn’t let go of the tequila bottle.”

“Oh. Right. Heh.” Piotr rolled his eyes, held up the pills Jean offered him and muttered “Bottoms up.” She dutifully opened her mouth. He crammed them inside and shoved her a bottle of water.

“Scott’s lucky,” Anna Marie remarked.

“Why?” He was about to tuck into a stack of pancakes.

“Even if yer eyes are all bloodshot, ya can’t tell.”

“Lucky me,” he snorted. “Once I hurled, I felt fine.”

“Please don’t say that,” Bobby moaned from his place at the other end of the table. His forehead was pressed against the cool wood and he’d spent the last twenty minutes making noises like a wounded sperm whale.

“Haven’t seen Remy yet this morning,” Betsy pointed out.

“Leave him under his rock.” Warren rattled the paper and took a bite of his bagel, tearing off a huge chunk with his teeth. He chewed noisily while Betsy rolled her eyes.

“I thought I heard someone up last night after I went upstairs.”

“I didn’t leave the music on, Jubi,” Anna Marie told her.

“Thought I heard it.” She cracked her gum and poured some orange juice.

“Don’t say ‘music’ right now.” Bobby was adamant.

“Oh, just open up already,” Jean snapped, nudging him with her fistful of Motrin. 

Ororo sailed into the room, looking fresh as a daisy. “Where’s Logan?”

“Dunno. He’s kept himself out of sight.”

“All morning? I didn’t hear him leave.”

“Half the time, we don’t. He’s good at making a speedy exit,” Jean shrugged.

“That’s fine, I suppose. I wanted to add a few things to his honey-do list.”

“Geez. I can’t even move right now,” Bobby complained. “Keep me off the list.”

“Me, too,” Anna, Jubes and Kitty chorused.

 

*

 

Later that night:

 

Logan made a clean break, scattering billiards across the green felt. Not too bad. He’d done worse.

He felt relieved to be home, such as it was, even if he’d been keeping himself scarce.

What the fuck could he even say?

Hey, Cajun, I know things got a little hot and heavy last night, but would ya mind forgettin’ how I almost throttled ya death with my family jewels? Logan winced.

He didn’t know if Remy’s reaction came before they “got to the good stuff”, or “just in the nick of time…”

Logan couldn’t even blame the alcohol. He had himself for that.

He spent the day out and about, buying some parts to restore an old bike and taking a few of his things to be dry cleaned. Ororo nagged him a couple of times via his mobile phone, which gave him the excuse to avoid coming home for another hour or two. 

What could he even say? The question dogged him again as he chalked up his cue and took his next shot.

He’d already cleared the CD carriage of the girls’ chick music and loaded a few of his favorite discs instead. He peered around through the CDs lined up neatly – alphabetized – on the shelf of the entertainment unit, but he couldn’t find the Johnny Cash. Must have been part of the Cajun’s secret stash. Logan settled for Eric Clapton.

He heard the front door shut quietly and someone hung up their coat.

He smelled him before he came into the den.

Remy stood in the doorway, peering around the edge of the frame. Watching him. Reading him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Ain’t seen ya.”

“Been out an’ about.”

“Eh.”

“Um.

“Game?” Logan tossed him the pool cue before he could protest. He began racking up the balls. “I call solids.” Remy swallowed hard, trying not to look him directly in the face.

Hello, awkward.

They played in near silence, occasionally reminding each other whose turn it was and whether either of them wanted a drink. Both of them stuck with beer. Logan drank his thirstily, as was his wont; Remy only sipped.

He reached for it again, then stared at it for a second, forgetting what he was going to do with it. This was driving him nuts.

The bottle hit the table’s edge with a thunk.

“Don’t spill that on the felt.”

“Fuck de table. We need t’talk about dis.”

“Ya scratched the last shot. Ain’t that complex. Ya lost a turn.”

“Don’ gimme dat shit.”

“What shit? Ya came ta play eight-ball, so we’re playin’ eight-ball.”

“Den just tell me dis: Who took my naked ass t’bed?” Logan looked up at him just before his cue hit the ball, throwing it off-center. He scratched, watching dumbfounded as the cue ball rolled into the side pocket, then scowled. Logan straightened up, and his voice was resigned.

“What is there ta say? Ya were naked before we even got up the stairs. And don’t blame that on me, Gumbo, ya took off yer clothes yerself.” Remy’s face turned beet red.

“Den…maybe ya wanna remind me how I got dis.” He peeled aside the collar of his shirt, a charcoal gray one this time, and revealed a large purple bruise.

Oooh. Logan winced.

“That. Yeah. Um. I, uh, didn’t know ya… bruised so easy.” After a beat, “Sorry.”

“Are ya sorry, homme?”

“Just said I was. Are ya done?”

“Looks like everyt’in’ stopped before we were done, mec. Remy’s a l’il fuzzy about how it ended, but he remembers all kinds’a shit ‘bout how it started.”

“It was a game. We were playin’ a game. And Drake made me a bet. Okay. That’s it. Ya happy?”

“Would be, if dat wuz it. But dat ain’t all.”

“What else is there?”

“Ya kissed me. And ya kissed me like ya meant it, mec.”

“So what if I did!” Logan blurted. He flung down his pool cue and shoved himself back from the table. Remy shivered. Logan’s nostrils were flared as he threw up his hands in a broad, angry gesture. “It was a game! What’d ya expect? Everybody was kissin’ everybody else! Ya egged me on…”

“Naw. Remy was behavin’ himself, jus’ sittin’ on de couch, waitin’ his turn.” Then again, Remy admitted to himself, maybe he wasn’t behaving himself that well.

“Ya kept on…givin’ me that look.”

“What look?” Remy wrinkled his brow.

“That look. Ya make that face all the fuckin’ time. Whenever yer playin’ with people, charmin’ ‘em.” Remy shook his head incredulously.

“Dat what ya t’ink, mec?”

“Cajun, I dunno where yer mouth’s been.” Remy reacted as though he’d punched him in the balls.

“Fuck you.” Remy charged the pool cue, feeling crackling yellow energy channel through his hand, engulfing the enameled wood. Before he could stop himself, he hurled it straight for the Canadian’s head.

SNIKT! Logan’s reflexes were quick, and his claws cut the stick into neat segments as he deflected it, but he snarled in pain as the charged pieces hit him anyway, scorching his cheek.

“Whaddya think I’m havin’ a problem with right now, Rem? I DID try ta fuck ya last night, and it’s drivin’ me nuts! One fuckin’ second, yer talkin’ shit and gettin’ sloppy drunk – and ya’d had enough, and wouldn’t listen ta me, either, ya little shit – and the next…and the next ya just…” His tirade drifted off to a low mumble.

“Den I what?”

“Then…I…grabbed ya.” Logan’s knuckles itched. He resheathed his claws and turned away, raking his hand through his hair.

“Oui. Ya did.” Remy’s recollections of the night before were coming at him hard and fast. Not unlike how Logan had come at him, now that he thought about it.

“Shouldn’t have happened.”

“Whatever, Logan. Dat what ya want, ta act like it didn’ ‘appen?”

“Would’ve been better if it didn’t.”

“Dat ain’t what Remy asked. Do ya wish it hadn’t happened?” Remy’s jaw was set and hard, and fire blazed from his red-on-black eyes.

“It’s the same thing.”

“Naw, it ain’t. And let me ‘splain somet’in’ to ya, mon ami. Remy don’ regret it. Wuz what it wuz. Might’ve jus’ stopped before I wanted it to, but y’act like ya dodged a bullet.”

“It ain’t like ya would’ve been all over me before –“

“Excuse de fuck outta Remy, den.”

“…before last night. Admit it. Last thing ya’ve ever thought about is us goin’ at it.”

“Ain’t gonna lie. Didn’ see dat one comin’, Logan, but y’know what? I t’ink ya liked it.” Remy picked up his beer bottle and shrugged, charging it. It blew up, evaporating the liquid inside. He was finished. “Funny t’in’ is, I liked it, too. Came outta nowhere, but ya made me hot an’ bothered. Yer mouth did wild things t’me, mec. Felt how hard ya got. Tell me ya didn’ mean it when dat happened.”

“Remy…”

“Don’ ‘Remy’ me. G’wan an’ play.”

“Ya ain’t taken yer turn yet.”

“Remy’s finished.” He swept out of the den, trotting up the steps. Logan snarled and kicked the couch.

*

 

Okay. He fucked up. Again. Big.

Remy’s stomach grumbled. Everything just felt worse when you were hungry. He let that thought guide him to the kitchen for a midnight snack.

 

*

Okay. He fucked up. Again. Big.

Logan was in the mood for a sandwich, and he decided to clear the plate he left on his desk before Jean came up and nagged him about attracting ants the next day. He trekked downstairs with visions of peanut butter and jelly on white in his head.

 

*

The kitchen was dark except for the range top light’s faint glow. Logan’s eyes adjusted quickly and he set the plate in the sink.

All Remy saw were his bare feet from below the fridge door as he bent his head inside, searching for the bread. “T’ought I wuz de only one hungry at dis…hour of de night.” His voice drifted off as Logan peered over the edge of the door. He held up the bread.

“Sandwich.”

“Kinda late.”

“Look who’s talkin’.” Remy crossed the room and opened a cabinet, retrieving the plastic package.

“Cookies.” He set some Oreos out on a plate. Logan automatically, wordlessly passed him the milk.

He was just wrapping his sandwich in a paper towel to take upstairs when Remy sighed.

“Siddown. Eat. M’almost done.”

“Take yer time.”

They snuck looks at each other as they ate. Remy was a cookie dunker. Logan hated the crusts on his bread.

“M’sorry.”

“Eh?”

“What happened last night. When ya, uh, got sick…”

Embarrassment swallowed Remy. He blinked.

“Guess I got caught up.”

“Imagine dat.”

“Sorry,” he apologized again.

“Neh. Um. Guess I could’ve given a li’l more warnin’ that I’ve got a sensitive gag reflex. Get’s worse when I hit de sauce…”

“If it wasn’t fer the positions we were in, I wouldn’t have had ta know that, Rem. Wasn’t information I would’ve considered useful til last night, y’know?”

Yet he filed it away for future knowledge. 

“M’finished.” Remy gulped down the rest of the milk, scrubbed the crumbs from his hands and moved to put away the Oreos.

“Rem.” Logan’s voice stopped him. It sounded plaintive and low.

“Gonna turn in early tonight.”

“Think ya can wait a sec?” Remy faced him. Logan was staring sullenly at his hands, clenching them over the dining table.

“Got somet’in on yer mind?”

“You were right. I did like it.”

 

The clock ticked on the kitchen wall, but time stood still between them.

“Ya liked it.” Logan swallowed uncomfortably.

“Yeah.”

“Guess I’m flattered. Nice t’know I’m right, once in a while. But maybe ya were right befo’ ‘bout how it shouldna’ happened.” He tried to sound cavalier, but his smile was defeated.

“No!” Logan’s voice flared, the calm in the kitchen shattered. “Fuck what I said. That wasn’t the question. Ya said it yerself. I don’t wish that it never fuckin’ happened. Part of me just wishes I knew why, Rem, and what the fuck I’m supposed ta do about it now!” Remy flinched.

“Damn.” Remy leaned against the doorframe, arms folded and one ankle crossed over the other.

Words were getting him nowhere. Logan rose from the table and stalked over to the door.

“Don’ expect Remy t’have de answers to…Mmmph…” All he saw was Logan’s determined look before he closed in on him and pulled him away from the doorframe by the wrist. 

His lips crashed down on his, less savagely than before, but it still stole his breath. Remy’s body tensed but he responded to him, opening for him and letting him inside. Logan pinned him, gripping his wrist and flattening Remy’s hand on his chest. Remy took the hint and reached for him, giving in to his need.

He felt surprise and satisfaction at the feel of Logan’s arm looping around his waist, bringing his body flush with his. He kissed him slowly, greedily, taking his sweet time and savoring the taste of him. Remy sighed into his mouth and embraced him, fitting himself against him.

Why the hell did they both have to make this so hard before?

Common sense be damned. Remy didn’t care about the next morning. He wouldn’t question it, wouldn’t regret, wouldn’t wish it away and wouldn’t rush through it. He was sober and Logan was turning him on, kissing him how he loved to be kissed and holding him possessively, sliding those big, warm, thick hands over him.

Remy’s hips began to move, bumping against Logan’s hardness and heat the more deeply they kissed. Logan’s moan was garbled as he nipped at Remy’s neck. He gasped at the wet rasp of his tongue lapping at him, swirling over the mark he made before.

He came up for air, short of breath. His slender hands framed Logan’s face as those rough, firm lips teased him, nipping at the corners of his mouth.

“I ain’t charmin’ you, Logan. Know dat.”

“I was mad before. I knew it then.” Then, “Ya can take yer clothes off, now…”

Instead, they stumbled upstairs; Remy hoped that no one heard two sets of footsteps thudding their way into Logan’s room. 

They fumbled, falling into each other in the effort to get close. Logan was untried and unsure in partnering with a man, but he wanted Remy. 

For Remy, that was enough. He wasted no time in relieving him of the horrid flannel pajama pants, balling them up and chucking them away; he resisted the urge to burn them with an “accidental” charge…Logan chuckled.

“Eager?”

Remy’s only response was a smile meant to tempt him, and he took Logan’s hand, guiding it toward his crotch. Remy was already hard and twitched beneath his cupped palm. Logan squeezed him experimentally, and Remy’s eyes clouded with lust.

“Can I take that as a yes?” There was no more room for speech when Remy leaned down and devoured his mouth, and then Logan fondled him in earnest.

This time, Logan and Remy slowed down, easing themselves down onto cool cotton sheets. Logan drank in and consumed the textures and scents and tastes of Remy’s body. The Cajun sank deeply into his embrace and slid over him, making them both feverish. Logan’s face strained and twisted with tension that turned into pleasure as he simply…let go. Remy’s hands and mouth explored his body, finding all of the secret places he missed in the den. Logan’s fingers once again tangled in his hair, but he thrust upward into his mouth this time, riding him at the pace he set. Watching the ruddy column of flesh disappear over and over between his lips was erotic, matched only by the luxury of him coddling him in that sultry wetness.

Pressure built within him, and Logan suppressed a shout, allowing himself shuddering groans of completion as he came. He heard the wet swallows in Remy’s throat and felt his flat tongue easing against him, cleaning him.

“That was…fuck,” Logan huffed as Remy lay beside him and rested his hand over his taut stomach, stroking it with his thumb.

“Gonna make dis Cajun boy blush, cher.”

Logan’s chest rumbled with quiet laughter. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he peered at Remy.

“What?”

“Think my turn’s up, now.”

“Don’ feel like a do-over?”

“I didn’t say that.” Remy felt a shiver of excitement as Logan pulled him beneath his solid bulk. Remy was still tumescent, and Logan was stirring back to life against him, making sane thought leave his head. “I need ya ta teach me a few more of the rules, Rem.” Remy moaned with need when Logan’s hips began to move and his mouth settled over his. “And I wanna hear ya come.”

Remy strained against him, limbs twining around that addictive body and…proceeded to teach him.

FIN.


End file.
